


Pwned by the Quartermaster

by SvengoolieCat



Series: Sven's 007Fest '17 Scribbles [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond gets his comeuppance, Humor, M/M, Q is a troll, Q's petty revenge, TSA regs, weird literary tastes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: Prompt Fill #9: Q is a fan of the trashiest, nastiest porn. Bond discovers this and is mildly appalled. And intrigued.





	Pwned by the Quartermaster

 

 

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to remove your books from your bag.”

The American TSA agent looked apologetically at Bond, silently pleading for his acquiescence in the outlandish request.

“My books?” Bond said. He wasn’t sure if he should be alarmed or confused that his bag was getting extra attention, but he wasn’t aware that his trashy paperback spy novel was a threat to the U.S. of A’s national security.

“New TSA regulations, that all books must be removed from bags and scanned.”

The TSA agent pointed at various signs posted around the security checkpoint that Bond had ignored because _what the hell_ , and then the book shaped figures on the X-ray. Bond stared at her, flabbergasted. Being safety-conscious is one thing. But this was madness. He knew Americans were loud, obnoxious, and not the brightest tools in the shed, but…books as literal weapons?

“Sir,” she said again, her tone hardening. “Please remove the books from your bag.”

“There’s only one,” he said. He’d bought it at a secondhand shop and had only gotten halfway through it on the ride from Heathrow to JFK.

“There are three,” she said, waving him away and motioning for two of her colleagues to join her. One big, burly, ex-NFL player sort ambled over, followed by a skinny little white guy who looked like he kicked puppies for fun.

She opened his bag with a businesslike yank on the zipper and pulled out his spy novel. Internally, Bond was considering his options and eyeing the exits. No one expected a real spy to read trashy spy novels with pin-up girls on the covers, but you never knew. The agent continued digging to the bottom of his carryon suitcase.

He made a small noise of protest as she disrupted his sock index and disarranged his military-precision packing order. She glanced sharply up at him, noting his displeasure and then dropped to the books she’d just unearthed and completely misread his noise of offended OCD for something else. She froze.

Bond leaned forward, wondering a) what the hell she found, since he didn’t pack any more books than the one, and b) why her face was doing that weird twitchy expression.

From the depths of the suitcase, beneath his neatly folded clothes, she unearthed two more books Bond absolutely did not pack—but he knew who did.

“I’m going to kill him,” Bond said, horrified to feel his face heating up. He didn’t know that was still possible for him to blush after all these years. “I’m going to kill the bastard dead.”

The other two TSA agents peered over the female agent’s shoulder. The ex-NFL one looked from the book, to Bond (furiously blushing), back to the book. He covered his mouth and started giggling.

The books were written by someone called Chuck Tingle, and the first was _Helicopter Man Pounds Dinosaur Billionaire Ass_. The second was _Chuck’s Dinosaur Tinglers: Vol 1_ , and boasted short stories entitled things like—

“…My Billionaire Triceratops Craves Gay Ass…?” The TSA agent suddenly looked like she aged ten years during the ten minute interaction.

Bond reached over and zipped the suitcase shut again, leaving her holding the anthology and staring off into the distance with a thousand-yard stare that Bond usually saw on POWs.

“My gift to you,” he said, nodding at the book in her hands. He retrieved his belongings and tried to make as quick and graceful an exit as possible, considering he had a suitcase containing dinosaur erotica in one hand and his shoes in the other.

Bloody Americans.

 

007_Q_007

It all started a month earlier. Bond had been making a nuisance of himself in Q-Branch by touching everything and shadowing the lovely young Quartermaster around like a lost hound until the other man snapped at him to go find somewhere else to play.

Rude, but it was so rare that the unflappable Q lost his temper that Bond decided to take him at face value and find somewhere else to be. However, since Q never quite gave him specific directions of where to go (except to hell, but Bond practically lived there in a Faustian sort of way, so that wasn’t anything new), Bond felt he was justified in whatever interpretation of the order he chose.

So he ended up in the Quartermaster’s private office. He wandered around the finished projects, eyed the detailed schematics for new cars and prototypes, looked at the framed pictures of the man’s cats.

 _He is very, very single_ , Bond thought. _And very, very not-straight_.

Bond circled around the big desk and settled into Q’s chair. It was excellent, with great lumbar support. He’d have to get one for his office.

The desk had drawers, so Bond amused himself by peering inside, finding a random assortment of wires, writing implements and pads, and…dinosaur porn? _What the hell, Q_. The cover featured a scantily clad blonde in and a T-Rex looming ( _sexily? Suggestively? What the fucking hell is this_?) in the background.

Bond couldn’t not look. Maybe it was a secret project or code he was working on?

Within ten pages, Bond had come to several conclusions:

  1. This was not a project or code that he could determine
  2. Q was a freak and if Bond wasn’t fascinated before, he was now
  3. Blackmail material. He might get an exploding pen after all. Or dinner.
  4. The book was absolutely hilarious



The door opened, revealing Q with his nose buried in a tablet. He registered the unauthorized presence in his own office immediately. Bond saw him visibly master the impulse to yelp and was bizarrely proud of him.

“007!”

“Q,” Bond said serenely. He waved the book at the Quartermaster. “I got bored so I decided to read a book. Imagine my surprise when I found one that wasn’t entirely math equations.”

Q’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It wasn’t at all what Bond expected. He figured there would be blushing, stammering, and verbal/physical tripping over himself to explain.

The boffin’s color was high, certainly, but his green eyes were gleaming in a way that suggested he’d somehow gotten the upper hand over Bond, which was ridiculous because Bond was the one holding the boffin’s embarrassing reading material.

The Quartermaster placed his tablet on his desk with deliberate care and glided around the desk to stand between Bond’s knees. He loomed over the agent who sprawled in the chair, looking down at Bond with a Cheshire cat grin. He plucked the book from Bond’s grasp.

For a shining moment, Bond thought that he was going to have a lapful of his favorite boffin as Q leaned forward, and oh, God that was a fantastic thought.

“If you’re interested, I’d be happy to recommend some titles,” the Quartermaster said, by way of explanation. His mouth was by Bond’s ear and the agent was too busy being wrong-footed to notice that one of Q’s hands was on a lever that Bond thought controlled the height of the chair.

He was wrong. The chair dumped him backwards onto the floor.

“Always a pleasure,” Q said, settling into his newly vacated chair. “Please see yourself out, and if you feel the need to poke through my things, I’ll be happy to send you out in the field with book recommendations. Good day.”

Bond beat a hasty retreat, not entirely sure what had just happened.

He rather thought that would be the end of it.

He was wrong.

 

007_Q_007

Monaco.

Bond was at the bar, ordering a martini when his earpiece crackled to life.

“Your mark is at your nine o’clock,” Q said. “Blue dress, appalling ‘80s hair.”

Bond glanced over and then back to his drink and grimaced.

“Q, I know why she isn’t photographed often,” he said.

“Oh?”

“She’s bloody hideous. And old.”

“They can’t all be leggy blonde supermodels,007. If honeypots were easy, everyone would do them.”

Bond bolted down his martini and fortified himself.

“I could always read you some salacious passages from _Taken by the T-Rex_ ,” Q said brightly. “It’s a genre classic, if that would help you get in the mood and do the deed.”

“Fuck you very much, Q. Goodnight.”

And then just to be spiteful, he dropped his earpiece in the dregs of his martini.

 

007_Q_007

London.

“Wantonly destroy my tech again, 007, and I’ll pack you off into the field with a roll of cheap duct tape and Chuck Tingle’s latest publication.”

Q smiled beatifically at Bond. For some reason—perhaps it was the underground lighting, the narrowness of the Quartermaster’s face, or the glittery shades of malice in those dark green eyes—the effect of the smile was far from cute. Q’s face took on a sinister, almost reptilian edge and Bond was torn between being genuinely appalled and turned on.

On his next mission, Bond destroyed tech. After all, Q was fond of making outlandish threats, and he didn’t think anything would actually come of it.

Again, he was wrong.

 

007_Q_007

JFK, New York.

Bond called Q as soon as he got to his gate.

“007, how might I assist you?” Computer keys clicked in Bond’s ear, soothing in their rhythm.

“Darling,” Bond said. “We just found your thoughtful gifts.” Bond was reordering his suitcase, and the incriminating book was on the seat beside him while he repacked.

A young mother made a scandalized noise, covered her intrigued 10-year old son’s eyes, and ushered him away while glaring at Bond over her shoulder. He waved the book at her in farewell just because he felt like being an arsehole and zipped the whole damn thing up again.

“We?” Q’s voice was light.

“Me and three very confused TSA agents. Apparently, there are travel restrictions on books now.”

“Is that so?” Q said, a touch smugly.

“I’m afraid I had to leave them with the anthology. She was just so enchanted with gay dinosaur-human relations.”

There was a slight huff on Q’s end of the line, but his voice was steady as ever. “How kind of you, Bond.”

“Indeed. I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciated your thoughtfulness. I promise I won’t forget it anytime soon.”

“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” Q said, airily. Bond could very clearly picture the Quartermaster’s evil grin. “Good luck out there in the field, 007, and do remember to bring your equipment back in one piece.”

The line went dead.

If the mission dragged on longer than he anticipated, and if Felix Leiter stole his trashy spy novel (was he in cahoots with Q?) and Bond was reduced to either staring at a blank hotel wall for hours or reading that damned book, well.

 


End file.
